


Meaning missing scene

by openhearts



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Episode: s03e01 Meaning, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-01
Updated: 2009-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-09 07:44:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10407234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openhearts/pseuds/openhearts
Summary: Originally posted at LiveJournal with a ridiculous picspam prologue.





	

An hour later the men have had it and are ready to go. The whiteboard is half-covered with writing. Cameron spent most of the hour complaining and absently checking her phone, so she volunteers to clean up the files while they go ahead. One of them casts a comment about being careful in the parking lot over his shoulder.

 

Another hour later the whiteboard is completely covered with writing. The files are still spread around her, paper upon paper. 

 

He steals around the corner into the corridor silently. For once, without the goddamned squeak of rubber on tile – step swish squeak pop step swish squeak pop. 

 

She’s in the middle of the hallway, that skinny perfect little ass of hers planted on the cool shining tile. She sits cross legged, those thin long perfect legs of hers folded into origami overlapping the paper carpet they made. Her hair’s a soft and messy rounded bun, the color of a perfect cup of coffee. She’s buttoned into one of her tiny vests from perfect tits to perfect hips. There’s a gap between shirt and pants across her back like an appetizer.

 

“What, House?” She asks into the silence as she squints at the whiteboard.

 

Fuck, how the hell did she- he smiles.

 

“I don’t see it,” she sighs as he approaches. 

 

He pauses behind her, eyes the board they’d dragged out into the hallway when the air in the conference room had gotten too full with tired theories and voices. He traces a curly “g” with one finger, rubbing the ink from the board under his skin. 

 

She’s immersing in a file again. He slides his fingers into his pockets and nudges one of her shoes on its side with his toe. It clatters and she looks up at him to see he’s balancing on one leg, hands in pockets, foot in midair bobbing slowly. Just because he can. She smiles. She’s really kind of thrilled for him –by him –like this.

 

He crouches down next to her, hands loosely folded between his knees. He still fairly towers over her.

 

 “So let’s try this again.” 

 

He flicks at the back of he file in her hands, disturbing the papers up at her so she flinches a little.

 

 “Try what?”

 

“Would you like to get a drink?”

 

She sighs again, closes the file, and sets it on the floor in front of her on top of the pile. She tents one hand of finger tips over the surface, scrapes her nails lightly over the paper.

 

He swears he can feel those fingernails on his bare stomach, followed by sweat born from fucking the voice out of her.

 

She’s watching him with eyes tired but heated. The grin pressing her mouth is amused. She leans up onto her knees and lets the cold tile press back up into her flattened palms. Her eye sharpens as she begins to move and he leans back until he tips onto his ass on top of 1998’s series of chest x-rays. 

 

 “Do you eat?” He starts again, still determined, “We could do that too-”

 

“House,” she says. It sounds a little different because the smile is still flexing the corners of her mouth wide. 

 

His heels and elbows are touching the floor now, keeping him erect though mostly horizontal as she begins to crawl over to him. Her kneecaps kiss the floor one at a time. 

 

He straightens his arms as she approaches, brings himself up to sit propped up so she has to lean up and back to keep from colliding with his chest. She acquiesces and sits back on her heels. Her hands fold primly in her lap. He smirks at her. His legs rest, spread lackadaisically on either side. The soles of his shoes scuffle over paper.

 

“I don’t think,” she begins softly, and he rolls his eyes. He opens his mouth to respond.

 

“I don’t think,” she repeats a little louder to drown out his retort, “that dry eyes are relevant to the case.”

 

Her eyes flick over his shoulder to the whiteboard. The smile still presses gently up into her cheeks. He cranes his neck to glance at the board.

 

“It’s on the board six times, seem like it-”

 

Two fingers are promenading up his chest, taking the buttons of his shirt like stepping stones. When he turns back she’s inches away, up on her knees again, other hand braced on the floor next his. She addressed the scar on his neck.

 

“Could be relevant?” she finishes.  “I thought so too, but other symptoms are more consistent.” 

 

She looks up to his eyes. He appraises her briefly. He thinks he can feel every perfect muscle of her coiled and keen with expectation. 

 

His head tilts to one side. “For example?” His thumb shifts to cover the first knuckle of her pinky finger over the floor.

 

“Mm, fever . . .” her fingers leave his collar and her palm presses into her own thigh as she leans back to squint at the board, “fever plus frequent urination.”

 

“Prostatits.” He leans up with her, just slightly. He adjusts his hands against the floor. He watches her eyebrows knit together a little as she tries to read messy handwriting through the dark hallway.

 

“White count was normal,” she’s back sitting on her heels. “No infection.” 

 

Her eyes begin to get lost in the maze on the board behind him. His brain takes the briefest moment to chuckle at that, and the rest of him steals the moment to lean forward and taste her collarbone. She inhales and a sound comes out of her like a guitar string being plucked out of time. It twangs with a little echo in the hallway, but soon his hand is covering it while his mouth is covering hers.

 

Words slip out here and there between.

 

“If you add pain to the mix,” he mutters as his fingers knit through her hair against her scalp, mussing the already loose bun, “could indicate a kidney problem.” 

 

She crawls up and folds her legs over his. The backs of her thighs press against the tops of his and his muscle yields with a satisfying stretch under her slight weight. Her knees press on either side of his hips and his hands travel over them to her waist.

 

“B.U.N. and creatinine were both fine.” 

 

She punctuates with a draw of her tongue over his lower lip. His fingernails hitch into the seams of her vest and he drags them across her ribs to the buttons. Her vest tackles a pile of handwritten notes when he tosses it to the side and the whole works slides haphazardly. His hands race back to span her ribs and his thumbs trace circles over her nipples through her shirt and bra.

 

“Abdominal pain, plus fever,” he pauses to suck her lip into his mouth and release it again with a gluttonous pop, “plus frequent urination could equal pancreatic cyst.” 

 

She places a palm against his chest squarely and pushes until he’s flat on his back. He barely has time to get his hands folded behind his head against the floor.

 

“He never had abdominal pain.” She wedges her hands flat against the tops of her thighs where they bend into her hips and lets them dictate a shift that travels from his shaft to through his lungs.

 

“It’s the first symptom on the board,” he counters.

 

She glances up at it.

 

“How can you tell he’s in pain just from a grunt?”

 

House surges upward and flips her sideways off of his lap and onto her back on the floor. He has a hand on her hip pressing down and a hand behind her head to break the fall.

 

“I know what it sounds like,” he says in the infinitesimal pause before her foot draws up his calf and she reaches for the button on her pants. 

 

He plants his hips against hers, trapping her hand from getting to the zipper. She turns her palm up to grasp his dick through his pants as he smears kisses into her open mouth.

 

He pauses a few seconds to gasp out, “he can’t tell us “I have a pain in my abdomen.” A grunt is all we’re going to get. We have to be creative with it”

 

Eyebrow raises, hands start in on his belt, and her thighs flex and clutch around his hips until he can feel the heat through their clothes. 

 

“Eight years,” she sighs into his mouth, “of medical history,” her eyes bear into his. 

 

Under their combined efforts, his pants are folded down to bunch around his knees and hers are kicked off until they hang on around one of her bare feet. She slides his boxer briefs down with her toes hooked into the waist band and he groans hoarsely when his hand finds her ass already bare. 

 

“It’s just random individual events over time,” she whispers through a clenched jaw.

 

She flexes her thighs again and fits herself around him with a violent upward pitch, wrapping her ankles around his waist until he sinks down into her completely. She buries her scream at the back of her throat against his shoulder.  His back arches and her hips tip and she’s pushed back down into the floor as his shoulders tilt up.

 

Then they fold back together and fall into a repeat, arcing and ducking for heavy wordless minutes until he rolls them back over. He’s on his back and she’s at a ninety degree angle, held up by his solid length through the middle of her.

 

There’s a pause in the rhythm; it’s just the gentle shift of her hips as she unbuttons his shirt. She discards the halves to his sides and falls forward to lick the sweat off his neck. 

 

His hands wrap around her elbows to press her back so he can take in her face. Her eyes are still tired, hooded and dilated, her lips parted by breaths she drinks in with greedy little gasps. The bun is barely clinging so he peels out the elastic and lets the ends of her hair flip out around her shoulders.

 

She begins the and tense and release, flex and fall, rock up and roll back rhythm above him, and their eyes hold fast through the movement.

 

“These things have incubation periods, Cameron.  They don’t just come out of nowhere.” Her mouth turns up fondly as she leans back down to him to taste his tongue again. Just because she can.

 

He spells out “upper endoscopic ultrasound” with his fingertips on her naked thighs. 

 

_


End file.
